"Julie!" She felt a hand tugging at her arm. "You can sit down now, Julie," Stan said. "Sit down!" Mechanically, she sat down. Woodenly, she stared at the tableau before her--the judge perched on his elevated throne, the stone-faced attendants at each side of the dais, the wire pen filled with misery. Through the almost tangible excitement and glee of the spectators, the misery reached her, held her. * * * * * The court was in session: the people of the City of New York against ... against an assortment of outcasts--drunks, derelicts, cripples, beggars--the "undesirables" that had been rounded up by the police in the past twenty-four hours. The people of the City of New York against a pen full of men whose only crimes, for the most part, were sickness, lack of hope and failure to possess the ID cards which everyone needed and which, somehow, they had been denied. How? Julie wondered. How could anyone not have an ID? Even if you lost your card you could get a new one simply by paying a fine. Even if you had been in prison you got a new card when you were released. You had to have a card! Everyone had to.... A court attendant called out: "Garcia, Miguel!" and a small, dark-complexioned man walked out of the detention pen and stood meekly before the judge. The clerk of the court read the charge, rattling it off in the sing-song jargon of court clerks, his words slurred together into one almost unintelligible burst of sound. There was a pause, and silence in the courtroom. "Well?" said the magistrate, "how do you plead?" His voice sounded kindly. He sat high on his bench, hunched into his black robe, and looked down with apparent benignancy on the little man who stood silently before him. The audience was hushed. It watched hopefully and waited. Julie could sense the intense excitement in Stan as he leaned forward, straining to catch every detail of the scene, anxious not to miss a thing. She heard a giggle, then Stan's hearty laugh, then a loud burst of laughter. She opened her eyes. The defendant was shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment. He turned half-way around to look at the laughing audience, a sheepish grin on his face. The magistrate smiled his appreciation of the humorous response to his question. "So, you can't make up your mind?" he said in a seemingly friendly and sympathetic way. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, Miguel. I'll give you thirty days in the city's hotel to think it over." Laughter and applause filled the room. The judge nodded his head in a little bow of acknowledgement. Miguel Garcia was led away, still smiling, obviously ignorant of what was happening. Miguel Garcia apparently did not understand English. Stan was happily filling in the first line of his scorecard. His face was flushed. His eyes were bright. A satisfied smile lingered on his lips. "Stan, let's leave," Julie said. Stan laughed in disbelief. "Are you kidding? The fun's just starting."